


Cancer, as it chokes and chokes out life

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: :-(, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluffy Angst, Just angst, M/M, Polyamory, cancer fic, illness sucks for everyone involved, light sexual scene, pretty even throuple dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Foggy's mostly in the hospital nowadays, and sometimes Matt stays over. They have bad nights, sometimes, too.





	Cancer, as it chokes and chokes out life

**Author's Note:**

> okay, sad. very sad. but keep in mind foggy gets better in the end :-)

Matt closes his eyes and rests his head on the plasticky, hard bed. He sits on a chair that isn't even close to comfortable. He takes in the ethanol smell of medical equipment and disease with each steadying breath and succumbs to the smell of vomit, blood, sweat and anguish. The patter of sensible shoes on linoleum. The rushing wheels. The screaming. He takes in the hundreds of beeping machines in every direction.

The one next to him beats in time to a familiar heartbeat. 

It stutters. Horribly. And his friend beside him lets out shaky, shallow breaths and chokes, occasionally. A pained wail here and there. Piercing, still, though it has become routine. Foggy is crying.

Matt is tired. He feels the fatigue in every corner of his body, dragging him slowly hellward. His heart, his stomach, his head, all dropping below the basement of the hospital.

"Foggy?" Matt croaks, finally. The crying doesn't stop.

"I'm dying," Foggy says. He says it like a revelation, as if he hasn't said it a hundred times before. It breaks Matt, every time. "Oh, my God, I'm dying."

Foggy doesn't get like this during the day. He's had years of dealing with bullshit and emotions and pain. He knows the drill. He knows how to look for the best in a situation, to seek out the little things that are joyful against the jagged asphalt and grime.

So Matt does what he can. He brings in Foggy's favourite treats, and his friend chews them thoroughly, deliberately. Sometimes he can even stomach some. He brings him flowers, because even though the scents might be too much for Matt, Foggy appreciates the intense colours, marvels at how such vivid petals can exist in nature. He appreciates them for hours at a time, often wordlessly. Matt sometimes sits with him. Sometimes Matt would tell him about the cases their firm takes on, sometimes, it's about the antics of a certain vigilante in red. Foggy laughs. It's getting rarer, but it's like an entire oasis, every time.

On the best days, they can even go out on walks or take a taxi ride somewhere, and Foggy can be in his own apartment, or Matt's, or even Kirsten's, and they can share meals and stories and watch films together and everything would feel almost as it was.

Matt knows that death is certain, and he knows in theory not to fear it. He can't help the rage, though.

And Foggy knows it, too. That there's no use in thrashing and shouting into a void that doesn't respond. That it takes less energy to saunter through as if it's any old ordeal. And it is inevitable, so there’s no use fighting it. It feels so acutely inevitable.

But at night, sometimes it’s like this. Foggy would stay up because his body won't let him sleep and he would truly ponder oblivion, and his fear would take hold. His despair.

"Foggy, I'm right here," Matt assures. It feels insufficient. He takes Foggy's hand and guides it to his face, letting Foggy feel Matt's presence even if his face is glued to his own monitor. "Come back to me, buddy. You're still here." Matt sits up proper to let Foggy see him. “You’re still here.”

"Matt, holy shit. I'm going to die."

Matt climbs the bed slowly, carefully avoiding all the tubes and wires from where he now knows them to be. He lies down next to the weeping man and gathers him up in a stunted embrace, the machinery getting in the way.

Matt almost lets himself imagine some other scenario where this embrace isn't such a wilted travesty. The clothes he keeps in a shelf by the corner could have been an entire wardrobe. Foggy's lone bedside photo could have been an album of their happy adventures together. The beeping monitor could have been a breathing baby. The hospital could have been a nice, upscale apartment bought with a joint income and no hospital bills.

Instead, Foggy cries into his chest because he is dying.

"Oh, God, everything hurts so much. I want it all to stop."

And Matt lets Foggy keep crying because there isn't anything left to do. Nothing he can do to alleviate the cancer taking his body. No words he can offer that won't land like limp lies. Nothing at all.

"I'm sorry, Foggy. I'm so sorry," he whispers, on and on between kisses to his friend's forehead. He keeps saying it. Repetitions. A well practiced prayer.

It takes a long, long time, but eventually, Foggy stops shaking in his arms and his breathing evens out.

"Matt," he whispers, hoarse, in the near silence. "I love you so much. I want you to remember that when I die.”

“I know. I will.”

“And tell Kirsten-”

“You’re going to tell her yourself, Foggy. You’re going to be here. She’s going to be here.”

When Foggy doesn’t respond, Matt shifts to kiss him again, where his hairline once was. He can feel absence on Foggy’s body viscerally now. He feels the lack of hair, the loss of fat, the atrophy of muscles. The absence grates at him like sandpaper, and it strips his fingertips.

Foggy is so small, now, and his body continues to shrink, even still. How long does he have until it disappears completely? What more if him is there left to go?

-

The minutes tick by and they settle into a comfortable spoon, Foggy dozing in Matt’s arms.

Matt lays awake. Exhausted, but awake. With wandering fingers, he traces along Foggy’s body. Present. Alive. He says the words in his head, a futile mantra.

He sneaks his fingers under Foggy’s shirt, feeling the skin. Soggy, soft, loose. So many descriptors, and none of them approach “well.” He can feel Foggy’s ribs now, and he can follow their curve to the hard sternum, where he lets his palm rise and fall with the steady, soft breathing. Present. Alive.

Matt kisses at Foggy’s neck to an amused chuckle.

“Are we getting frisky here, Murdock?”

“Mhm,” Matt says into Foggy’s back. Slowly, he lets his hand travel lower, to Foggy’s stomach, his navel, his hips. Everything he loves. Everything that feels wrong and cursed. He spends some time lingering at the waistband of Foggy’s boxers, asking for permission.

Foggy sighs. “Go ahead. I can’t make any promises about my performance, though.”

“Just let me touch you.”

“Okay.”

And Matt does. He takes his time memorizing everything, tries not to think of it like a goodbye. Foggy, with a racing heart, breathing, laughing. Present. Alive.

He bats away Foggy’s generous hand as it reaches for him, opts to kiss Foggy’s shoulders instead.

When he’s done, Foggy turns to Matt and kisses him softly.

“Let’s get married,” Matt whispers into his mouth, because he can’t help but be overwhelmed with that desire. Something stable. “When you’re better.”

Foggy shakes his head and swallows before he speaks. “Matt, I don’t know if-”

“When you’re better.”

“Alright, Matt. You and me. Nelson and Murdock against the world.”

“As it should be.” There’s a wet chuckle and Matt slumps back down into the shitty mattress.

-

Kirsten comes to visit in the morning. She gives Foggy a bagel and a quick kiss. Matt is resting his head on Foggy’s lap, an open book on top of him.

He’s still on the vestiges of sleep, listening to everything in an unfocused haze. The dogs and birds outside, the morning joggers, the cars. Foggy and Kirsten breathing warm and bright so close to him. He chooses not to move.

“Thanks, Kirsten,” Foggy says. He sniffs the bagel and takes an exploratory bite.

“How are we doing today, big guy?” she replies, subdued.

“Pretty good, all things considered. Had a bad night, but Matt was here. I might go for a walk later, if you’d care to join me.”

“Of course. Give me a call.” She says it like she has any desire to leave. Matt knows her better by now. “And Matt? How’s he holding up?” She sits down on the bedside chair.

“I think he’s sad. Hey, Kirsten?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of him well. You know, when I,” Matt tracks the sharp movement of Foggy’s hand across his throat. 

“Well, props to you for thinking ahead, but I’m going to hope it’s not going to come to that.” Matt can feel her anger radiating off of her. She resists resignation fervently in her tripping heart and icy tone. Matt loves her deeply. “You can’t give up on yourself so easily, Foggy. Besides, I’d have my hands full alone with  _ him _ .”

And she’s joking. Matt knows she’s joking, but he can also feel the weight of the words, the clamminess of her shaking hands.

Foggy’s stiff under Matt, and he’s cloyingly silent. Kirsten takes his bagel-free hand and laces their fingers together. She holds Foggy preciously, in two desperate hands.

“You’re not going to die. You have to believe that.”

“You guys are bleeding resources on me, and the stats aren’t looking that hot.” Foggy shrugs, irritatingly nonchalant. “I just want you guys to know that there would be no hard feelings if you cut your losses,” Foggy informs her. He takes another bite of his breakfast and sets it down.

“Foggy. Don’t say things like that. I can’t handle two suicidal dumbasses. You’re going to live. We’re going to have that good champagne, and you’re going to get a giant cheesecake, and you’re going to spend five days naked in your nice little apartment that I clean for you every week. You got it? I have it all planned out, so you’re going to look forward to it and not say another word about dying, alright?”

He sighs. “Fine, but as soon as you guys are in the red, I’m cutting the life support myself.”

And it’s great that Foggy doesn’t know they’re already in the red. It’s great that he’ll never find out. Not even after he gets healthy.

“Foggy, I thought you were smarter than this. I want you around, and I’m too selfish to let go of that.” They kiss again, and nothing is better.

Kirsten gets upset easily nowadays, even though she wasn’t always quick to anger or tears, but they’re all wearing thin these days.

Matt’s shutting down, getting quiet in his despair. Kirsten is flaring with rage, trying to claw at dry sand.

But Foggy will live. Matt believes it. Hopes it with everything he’s got. He will live through this and in fifty years, they’ll all sit by a fire and Foggy’s cancer will be a long-healed scar on all of them. And they’ll all be together. Just as they are now.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, you can't convince me that they're not a very committed, very loving throuple during Waid's run. Matt and Kirsten love each other. Foggy and Kirsten revere each other. Matt and Foggy are just...like that. (i've been writing a shitton this summer and so much of it is mattfoggy oops.) [ also i'm on tumblr ](https://artbymintcookies.tumblr.com/) (i'll do something plot-heavy eventually)


End file.
